


Through the Mirror, Darkly

by valantha



Series: LJ prompt [6]
Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Alternate Universe - War, F/M, LJ 60 prompts in 60 days, Mirror Universe, The Blackout still happens
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-14
Updated: 2013-12-04
Packaged: 2017-12-23 11:51:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 14,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/926063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valantha/pseuds/valantha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A jaded and calculating waitress starts falling for her latest mark, a straight-laced, yet surprising, scientist with mournful brown eyes and oddly callused hands. Set in Star Trek's Mirror Universe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Mirror, Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> Author’s Note: This is set in the Star Trek Mirror Universe, an AU in which human aggression and selfishness is more pronounced. 
> 
> Inspired by this jpg found by Teresa: [Sexy Scientist Miles](http://image.qpicture.com/image/b/artist-billy-burke/billy-burke-203816.jpg)
> 
> I don't own the characters or Revolution; I'm just playing with them for a bit for fun, not profit.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is for the LJ 60 prompts in 60 days: Mirror.
> 
> Thank you to Teresa for beta'ing this chapter.

“Your Saturday is here,” whispered Grace, a woman hiding from an abusive husband with certain unsavory connections.

Rachel nodded from her resting place in the kitchen and adjusted her uniform and hair from her typical friendly, approachable, and sexy look that got her the most tips, to a more demure girl-next-door look. Rachel sneaked a peak in the freezer, using the reflective surface as a mirror. Excellent.

Rachel was always a quick and accurate judge of men, and had known within a half-a-minute of seeing this slightly rumpled, introspective Miles Matheson, that he would make a good mark. Not too creepy, not too needy, not too suspicious. Luckily, Miles returned regularly to the café and tipped well. He typically came by Saturdays at around 2 and stayed for several hours, his nose deeply buried in some abstruse sciency book, a notepad of magical scribbles sprawled beside him. He ordered whatever pastry item she recommended and a house coffee, though he asked for his refills to be decaf. He always tipped near 100% of the bill, frequently apologizing for hogging one of her booths for so long. Definitely a good mark.

Rachel also knew within a half-a-minute that he’d be put off by anything too forward. He was shy; timid was the way to go with this mark. She guessed his sexual fantasy was totally “girl-next-door.” On the other hand, she used a completely different technique for her Tuesday, an early-thirties divorcé, who needed to be dominated a bit and liked her in slinky dresses.

Rachel walked up to the booth Miles had settled into. His leather jacket was bunched up in the corner, his bag of books splayed open, his heather-gray V-neck shirt already coffee-stained. She timidly smiled at him and said, “We have an excellent carrot-cake muffin today.”

Miles returned her smile and pushed his glasses up his nose, “Sounds good, and a coffee please.”

Rachel nodded and returned promptly with the muffin and a mug of coffee. She set them down at the booth, and he murmured his thanks, his somber brown eyes never leaving his book. Rachel sighed silently; she had played out the timid phase long enough. It was time for Phase two. Rachel palmed Grace a piece of paper in passing. Grace knew the drill. She knew the way Rachel operated, knew her way of meeting guys, and knew her way of burning through them in her attempts at finding The One. Just like Rachel knew exactly what sort of men to keep an eye out for and warn Grace about.

Rachel tended her tables, fairly light for a Saturday afternoon: one couple, one family, two girlfriends catching up, and Miles. She was ultra-attentive to Miles, and as soon as he waved off another refill, she gave Grace a nod and hid in the kitchen where she’d have a good vantage point.

Grace walked over to Miles’ booth and handed him the bit of paper Rachel had handed her. The noise of the kitchen – namely the spray of the dishwasher – masked their conversation, but Rachel knew Grace was telling him that Rachel liked him, and that she was too shy to do anything about it, but he really should give her a call.

Miles blushed, took the paper, thanked Grace, looked at the paper, and rubbed his hand along his neatly trimmed beard. Rachel watched a few more minutes, watched him stare at the piece of paper, and then reverently fold it up and put it in his wallet. Excellent. Rachel hid for a bit longer and then rang up his bill.

Rachel nonchalantly slid the check on his table with her left hand, a coffee pot in her right, intending on refilling the girlfriends’ mugs. Miles grabbed her left wrist and held it firmly but not tightly; Rachel didn’t expect this. Miles’ hand was oddly callused, also something she didn’t expect. In her experience, scientists had baby-smooth hands, probably from spending all day in lab coats and gloves, or HAZMAT suits, or whatever. Rachel turned around, her face a mask of timid innocence.

“Yes?” She asked, “Is there anything else I can get you Miles?”

She waited, her left arm crossed over her body, the warmth of Miles’ hand seeping into her wrist.

Miles seemed frozen in indecision, but he finally forced out, “Do doyouwannahavedinnerwithmesometime?”

A genuine smile found its way onto Rachel’s face, and she softly said, “Yes.” She then looked down at her feet, remembering the role she was playing.

“Tomorrow?” He asked.

Rachel took a moment to think. Tomorrow was Sunday. She worked until 4 – the post-Church crowd – but should have plenty of time to clean up before dinner.

Rachel shyly smiled and nodded.

“Seven?” He asked, and she nodded. 

“Meet here?” He asked, and she shrugged. It wasn’t like she could give him her home address and have him pick her up there. She shared a small two-bedroom rent-controlled apartment with Grace, Nora – a “sixteen-year-old” jailbait runaway – and Nora’s kid sister Mia. The three adults all worked under the table at the café and between their tips, they could cover rent, utilities, fuel for Grace’s bike, and not much more. The apartment wasn’t in the best of neighborhoods, and having him pick her up there shouted “damsel-in-distress” not “girl-next-door.” She no longer played into the “damsel-in-distress” fantasy; she had too much self-respect. 

He looked a bit at a loss, so she acquiesced to his meeting place, “Sure.”

“Cool, um, I mean, good,” he said. “See you then.”

Rachel smiled and then pointedly glanced down at her wrist. He was still holding it firmly, taut across her body. Miles followed her eye line and dropped her hand so quickly she would have thought it was scalding hot.

“Sorry. Um. I didn’t mean to. Sorry.” Miles apologized, and rhythmically clenched his hands together, on top of the table.

Another genuine smile found its way onto Rachel’s face, and she gently stroked the back of his hand. “It’s okay.”

Rachel continued on to refill the girlfriends’ mugs, and by the time she gave them a refill and rang them up, Miles had left, leaving only $10 – nearly double his bill – and a note. Excellent. Rachel tucked the note into the waistband of her apron and gave Grace a big thumbs-up.

Later, while sitting on the toilet, Rachel pulled out the note. It had very clearly been written on a piece of paper neatly torn from his notebook. In a crisp, clean, almost copperplate script, Miles had written:

_Dear Rachel,_

_Your friend Gracie gave me your number. I think it’s only fair if you have mine._

_(630) 252-2000_

_Miles Matheson_

Discounting the fact that he got Grace’s name incorrect, it was a sweet, simple note. And there was something indefinably sexy about a man with good penmanship, maybe because it indicated a certain amount of conscientiousness. 


	2. A Taste of Armageddon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is for the LJ 60 prompts in 60 days: war.
> 
> Thank you to Teresa for beta'ing this chapter.

Rachel waited patiently in the alleyway behind the café. It was 6:45 and she didn't wait to wait out front. It wouldn't do to seem too eager, too desperate. She ducked out from behind the dumpster she was standing behind to take a quick look, and saw Miles arrive. Excellent. She'd have him wait five more minutes, and then arrive "early" too.

Rachel smoothed out her cute dress – a turquoise polka-dotted sundress – and adjusted her turquoise ribbon in her hair. Yes, she was wearing a Matilda-style ribbon in her hair; she thought it gave her a very Mary Jane Watson look. She thought Miles might have a Peter Parker-esque mental image of himself.

Once she was sufficiently tidied up, Rachel walked down the alleyway and back several blocks before returning to the main street. She walked down the sidewalk and blushed prettily when she saw Miles waiting with a bouquet of sunflowers. He had cleaned up rather nicely, wearing a nice blue button-up underneath his leather jacket and clean slacks.

"I'm sorry I'm late." She said, knowing full well it was only 6:53.

"No, no, you're not late. I'm just early," Miles said, and awkwardly handed Rachel the sunflowers.

Rachel took the bouquet and gifted him a big smile; flowers on a first date was a good sign. "Thank you. They're beautiful."

Miles rubbed at the back of his neck, coughed once, and replied, "You're welcome. Sunflowers mean 'Pure and lofty thoughts.'"

Rachel mentally rolled her eyes at this, and thought  _nerd_. "That's sweet," she said aloud.

Miles awkwardly and gallantly offered her his arm, and she suppressed another mental eye roll as she took his arm.

Miles led her to his dull, five-year-old Ford Focus, precisely the sort of boring car she imagined he'd drive.

He opened the passenger door for her, and she was surprised at how clean it was. She'd bet good money he'd spent the afternoon cleaning it.

Miles asked, "Do you like Italian?"

Rachel smiled and said, "Yes." Anything that didn't come from the café was good in her book, even though about two thirds of her marks thought that Italian was a perfect first-date food. Rachel blamed  _The Lady and the Tramp._

Miles nodded definitively to himself, and said, "Good."

Miles was silent for a while, and Rachel asked, "So what kind of science do you do?"

Rachel watched as he took a quick peek at her before returning his eyes to the road, "Nothing too special." A code Rachel knew stood for 'Top-Secret Defense Project.' The café was near the university and she had 'known' too many scientists not to know that each one thought their stuff was the best thing since the Manhattan Project. And the only way a sound and healthy man like Miles could have gotten out of compulsory military service was to work on something vital for national defense and security.

Rachel didn't push the subject, and instead asked, "Where are you from?"

Miles replied, "Indiana."

Rachel waited for more, but nothing was forthcoming. She didn't think he would be so taciturn, which was normally a problem, but then again, he might just be nervous. Rachel settled in to watch the city streets wiz by; trying to figure out which restaurant he was taking her to.

Eventually, Miles parked at the rear of a little hole-in-the-wall place Rachel hadn't been to yet. Rachel knew he was going to do the whole run-around-the-car-and-open-the-door-for-her thing, and she had to decide if she was going to let him. Nah. A "girl-next-door" was perfectly capable of opening her own damn door. Rachel got out, locked the door and met him at the front of the car. She had left the sunflowers on the seat; it was too awkward to bring them in with them.

When they got to the restaurant, Rachel let Miles hold the door open for her; she didn't want to undermine all of his chivalrous tendencies, just the annoying ones. Similarly Rachel let Miles pull her chair out for her, and once they both were seated, Miles restarted their conversation.

"What do you do, outside of working at the café?" He asked.

"Not much," Rachel replied;  _looking for a permanent mark_  wasn't an appropriate answer. "I have a screen-play that I'm working on."

"Oh?" Miles asked, surprised.

Rachel told him her go-to 'hopes/dreams/aspirations' spiel. After several tests she had figured out that being a playwright was perfect. It was neither too intimidatingly ambitious, too head-in-the-clouds quixotic, nor too stick-in-the-mud boring. Rachel later determined that it also served as a good filter. If the mark acted patronizingly about her aspiration to be a playwright, then he was likely to act in an asinine and patronizing manner about many other things, and wouldn't be even a good temporary mark, let-alone a permanent one.

Miles smiled, his brown eyes glistening as Rachel told him a bit about her 'play.' He actually seemed to be listening, which was rare. The atypical feeling of actually being listened to propelled Rachel to keep talking. It was only after the waiter returned with their bottle of red wine did Rachel stop and try to turn the conversation back to Miles.

Rachel asked, "What about you? What is your dream job?"

Miles' smile left his eyes, and he got somber – which wasn't exactly the reaction Rachel was expecting. He said, "If the Chinese stopped escalating this war, and peace or a détente was reached, I'd like to be an auto mechanic. I'd like to stop dealing in death and just fix stuff."

Rachel stopped smiling too. The War with the Chinese was something no one talked about, but something that weighed down everyone. Rachel's father had died in a Chinese bombing of the Galveston Navy Base when she was a toddler, and Rachel's mother had died a few years later when JPL was obliterated, leaving Rachel in the unenviable situation of being a ward of the State.

Rachel shook herself out of her funk and said, "Auto mechanic?"  _With that dull car?_

Miles responded, "I like knowing how things work, and if it wasn't for my brother, I'd probably be an Army Mechanic."

Rachel, attempting to change the subject, "You have a brother? What does he do?"

Miles got even more stony-faced, "Had. Argonne. Summer internship."

Rachel winced. Argonne was another National Lab that – just like JPL – was obliterated.

Rachel grabbed his hand, and gave it a comforting squeeze. She was too raw to dissemble, "My mother was at JPL."

Miles squeezed her hand back; Rachel could feel the rub of his coarse calluses against her palm. "How old were you?"

Rachel replied, "Six."

Miles said simply, "I'm sorry."

The two sat in silence for a long moment, hands still clasped, the pain of shared loss leaving no need for further words, until Rachel became uncomfortable with the authenticity of the interaction.

Rachel released Miles' hand and tugged at her dress, smoothing out invisible wrinkles. "I have to use the restroom." She said.

Miles nodded and shook himself out of his reverie.


	3. Plato's Stepchildren

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is for the LJ 60 prompts in 60 days: kiss.
> 
> Thank you to Teresa for beta'ing this chapter.

Rachel hunted out the lady's room and took a few moments to sort herself out. It was odd that Miles had brought up The War on their first date. It was one of those topics – like religion, politics, and money – that you just didn't talk about in polite society. Rachel had never thought to think up the girl-next-door's thoughts about the war, and her losses. Not having that foreknowledge, that cover, really made Rachel uncomfortable.

By the time Rachel returned from the restroom, Miles had a smile fixed determinedly to his face, and he resolutely brought up happy topics, asking about her favorite movie, her favorite actor, her favorite music. All well-fixed first date conversation topics.

The swing of conversation picked up, just in time for the waiter to take their order. Once he left, Rachel took the offensive and asked Miles about his favorite baseball team – baseball being one of the few ways out of compulsory military service – and his hobbies.

When the food arrived, the conversation lulled, Miles having a single-minded focus on his food. Rachel used the time to evaluate Miles, and to try to understand why he surprised her so much. She would have never expected that he would have grabbed her arm after such minimal prodding by Grace – too forward – or that he was such a great listener. Him bringing up the war was also odd. Most of the time he was awkward and nerdy, but then other times he was sensitive and empathetic. Very unusual.

The food was good, but the marinara had a bit too much basil for Rachel's taste, and once Miles had demolished his ravioli, the conversation picked up again. Rachel was so focused on puzzling out Miles and what category to put him in, that she forgot herself and started answering things honestly without falling back on her "girl-next-door" cover. She had told him her real favorite flowers, favorite color, and favorite place to visit – daisies, dark purple, and the city library. During the 100% genuine conversation they had about favorite books and authors, Rachel forgot she was on a date with a mark and actually enjoyed herself.

After dessert, Miles drove her home, and she was shocked to realize how much truth she had actually told him. She had also told him her real pet peeves – parents who let their kids run around the café and bikers without helmets – without considering how they would make her sound.

When Miles asked where to drive her, Rachel gave him her real address, still not quite sure what to make of this suddenly enigmatic man, but more than willing to give him a few more dates.

Miles parked close to her rent-controlled apartment, and as he walked her to her front door, a motorcycle came whizzing down the street. Rachel tried to step back, but her kitten heel was caught in a crack. Miles grabbed her forearm and pulled her out of the road. Her sunflowers got a bit smushed; he was a lot stronger than his lean frame and slightly rumpled exterior indicated.

Rachel panted, her heart pounding, and once she calmed down a bit, she felt a wave of warmth and wetness suffusing her center.

"Thank you." She panted out.

"You okay?" Miles asked.

"Yes, thank you." Rachel said as she bent down to pick her shoe up from the road, and tried to get her hormones under control, "That was close."

"You can say that again," Miles said.

Rachel dryly said, "That was close."

Miles grinned at her weak attempt at easing the tension. He protectively put his hand on the small of her back as they re-attempted to cross the street. They made it across without incident and to her apartment's front door.

"Well…" Miles said.

Rachel wanted to invite him up. Adrenaline always made her horny, but her roommates wouldn't appreciate it – they had a deal that she could do whomever, so long as it wasn't there –  **and**  it would be sending the wrong message.

"Thank you for a wonderful night." Rachel said, stepping close to Miles.

Miles slowly leaned in, and Rachel met him halfway. Their lips met and there were no fireworks. His lips were neither too wet nor too dry, and he applied neither too much nor not enough pressure. His technique was fine, though his beard was scratchy, but Rachel's hope at finally finding The One – the perfect mark, one she might someday come to care about – was unsatisfied.

Oh well. Rachel fell back on her "girl-next-door" cover, and mock-awkwardly said, "Good night."

Miles said, "Good night. I'll, I'll, I'll call you."

Rachel nodded and smiled in an encouraging manner. Before unlocking her apartment building's front door, she glanced back, "accidentally" catching Miles' eye. She blushed and shut the door.

Rachel eased the fake grin off her face and ran up the four flights of stairs to her apartment. As soon as she unlocked and opened the door, Mia, Nora's little sister, accosted her.

"How was the date?" Mia asked.

"Interesting," replied Rachel.

"Interesting?" asked Mia. Typically Rachel responded with a number between 1 and 10.

"Yes, interesting. Don't you have school tomorrow? Aren't you supposed to be sleeping? retorted Rachel.

"Columbus Day," replied Mia in that 'you are stupid' tone universal to all pre-teens. "Why was it interesting?"

Rachel could see both Grace and Nora's heads peaking around the hallway into the entrance. Rachel kicked off her treacherous cute shoes and walked into their kitchen/dining room/living room/Grace's bedroom.

She grabbed a stolen glass, filled it up, and unceremoniously placed the sunflowers in it. Only then did she pull up a seat in one of the mismatched chairs and answered their questioning looks with a question of her own, "How much do you have riding on it?"

Grace answered, "One load of laundry." Rachel nodded; her friends weren't certain about him either.

Rachel removed her ribbon from her hair and said, "It was a mixed bag. He brought up The War." This was met with hisses all around – Nora especially. "We talked Steven King and The Stand." Grace smiled at this. "He saved me from a motorcycle, but the kiss was meh."

"And…?" Asked Nora.

"I guess I'd have to say a 6." Rachel said.

Grace crowed and Nora moped a bit.

Mia said, "I bet a sink of dishes, that you sleep with him on the third date."

Rachel shot Nora a worried look. Nine-year-olds weren't supposed to think like that; _she had_ , but her childhood was nothing she'd wish on anyone. Nora just shrugged. She was just a kid herself and was doing her best, forcing Mia to stay in school and keeping food on the table.

Interrogation over, Rachel gracelessly pushed off of the table and went to her room. She carefully hung up her turquoise polka-dotted sundress and fell into bed. She had another opening to lunch-rush shift tomorrow.


	4. What Are Little Girls Made Of?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is for the LJ 60 prompts in 60 days: courtship.
> 
> Thank you to xyber116 for beta'ing this chapter.

Rachel's Monday and Tuesday shifts were uneventful. Tips from the café were on the good end of average, and the Columbus Day revelry was modest compared to some previous years. Her Tuesday – Mr. Neville, Tom – was out of town, so she didn't have her typical Tuesday dinner and fuck planned.

On Tuesdays, Tom would come in for lunch and Rachel would suggest dinner. Then he'd pick her up at her place and take her to an exquisite restaurant. After dinner, he'd drive her back to his place, she'd ride him hard, and ignore the fact that he cried out his ex-wife's name when he climaxed. That distasteful habit aside, Tom actually was a good guy. He was fairly self-effacing, made good money, and was surprisingly skillful in the sack. His ex-wife must have taught him quite a lot. He picked out extremely clunky jewelry though. Rachel would be happy when they broke up, and she could sell off the inelegant pieces.

Rachel had just settled in to her comfy pants and had contently curled up with a collection of Stephen King's short stories when her phone rang. She checked the caller ID. It was Miles. It was a good thing that she wasn't on a date with Tom right now; she'd have to let it go to voice-mail then. This was always the awkward part of the courtship process; you didn't want to seem too standoffish, or too accommodating. Miles struck her as a man with a pretty fragile ego, so she'd have to lean towards accommodating to keep him from bolting.

She let the phone ring once more before perkily answering, "Hello?"

"Hi, this is Miles, Miles Matheson." He said.

"Good evening Miles," replied Rachel her voice laden with even more good cheer.

"I know there are social protocols about calling too soon after a first date, but…" Miles paused, and then his tongue took off at break-neck speed, as if he was concerned with rejection mid-sentence, "So, there's this Ibsen play on campus, the Friday and Saturday evening showings are sold-out already, but the Thursday evening and Sunday matinee aren't sold-out yet, and I was wondering if you'd like to see it. With me."

Rachel ruthlessly squashed any humor from her countenance or voice at his self-effacement and said, "I'd  _love_  to see an Ibsen play. I can't make the Sunday matinee – work – but I can go to the Thursday showing."

Miles huffed out a huge sigh in the form of, "Great."

Then there was silence. Rachel hated phone conversations as they were completely lacking visual clues, and reading body language was one of her biggest strengths. How did Miles feel, what was he thinking? Rachel let the silence hang for tiny bit longer before asking, "Is the play in Greene Hall? I could meet you there…"

This was enough to restart Miles, and he said, "No, um, I can pick you up. The play doesn't start until 8, but, um, there is this great underground restaurant just off of campus, if you're interested."

"Oh?" asked Rachel, wondering about an underground restaurant.

"Yeah, some foreign nationals started up a restaurant. The food is really good, but it's pretty hush-hush, 'cause they don't have the right permits," said Miles.

Now, Rachel was intrigued, a top-secret restaurant with foreign food? It had to be good. She said, "That sounds fascinating."

"Shall I pick you up at your place at 6?" asked Miles.

"Damn!" said Rachel softly, "I work until 6, but if you pick me up at the café, I'll be ready to go by 6:15." This all was the truth, but Rachel had alternative motives for suggesting Miles pick her up at the café, and not the apartment.

"Okay. Sounds good. See you then," said Miles.

"See you Thursday!" brightly said Rachel before hanging up.

An Ibsen play actually sounded thoroughly fun. Even though her typical cover aspiration was to become a playwright, very rarely did a mark actually take it into consideration. And even if they did, they typically suggested a cookie-cutter movie, full of action and sexy babes, but completely lacking good writing. Rachel gave Miles mucho brownie points for the idea of a play.

Rachel tried to settle back into her short story, but she was pretty revved up about getting to see an Ibsen play. She tried remembering if she'd seen flyers up, and which play they were doing. She'd seen  _A Doll's House_ , of course, but none of his others. She'd heard good things about  _The Wild Duck_ , but a play about affairs wasn't exactly the best second date material.  _Hedda Gabler_ , another Ibsen play Rachel wanted to see performed someday, was about duplicity and suicide. All three plays focused on a woman, who was given the shortest end of a stick, and well, she took it, didn't mope about it, and that wasn't nothing.

_Eh,_  it wasn't like she had any control over which play anyhow, but hopefully Miles knew what he was getting himself into. It would be very awkward if he didn't, especially this early in the game. He might try to bullshit his way into sounding cultured, but it would really just seem contrived, and that was never a good second date.

_Hmm_ , a second date dress, it couldn't be too much, but it was a play, so she should be pretty classy. And it would have to hang in the backroom of the café during her shift, so it couldn't be too fussy or too long. After some thought, Rachel decided that one of her little black dresses would work.

That problem solved, Rachel resolutely turned her mind away from her anticipation of the play, and focused on enjoying her quiet "me-time" reading. It wasn't something she indulged in frequently. Between working 50+ hours a week at the café, and her dates with marks, she didn't usually have a lot of free time. And she wasn't going to let the thoughts of some man interfere with it.


	5. Let That Be Your Last Battlefield

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is for the LJ 60 prompts in 60 days: What happens in… (originally Rules, but Butters got there first)
> 
> Thank you to xyber116 for beta'ing this chapter.

Wednesday passed uneventfully, and Rachel went through the motions at work on Thursday, full of carefully suppressed excitement, with an elegant little black dress hanging in Nora's cubby in the back – her own was full of shoes, make-up bags, and accessories. The early-bird rush was surprisingly light, and Rachel was able to foist her last two tables onto Nora (who always needed the extra tip money anyways) and clock out at 5:35.

Rachel used the extra time to smooth out her "wrinkle-free" little black dress, adjust her make-up, and spiffy-up her hair.

At 6:12 Rachel went out to the front of the café, Nora gave her a teasing wolf-whistle as she passed, and at 6:14 Miles came driving by in his five-year-old Ford Focus.

A drive-by pick-up wasn't the classiest of things to do, but he still had a large stock of brownie points from the date idea, so she brushed it off, and stepped into the car. In the few days since their first date, the car had picked up a few empty coffee cups and an empty single-serving pizza box.

After a round of cordial hellos, and a genuine "Wow, you look nice," Miles lapsed into silence. Rachel decided he just wasn't good at multi-tasking.

They drove the short bit to campus, and Miles parked his car in an economy lot on the outskirts. Miles made no attempt at opening Rachel's car door for her, but did offer her his arm. He mentioned a few factoids about the part of campus they were passing through – factoids that Rachel mostly knew, but she still listened intently. Miles guided her to an ordinary looking townhouse and just opened the door, without knocking or anything.

An appetizing aroma streamed out of the townhouse. It was savory and spicy with hints of sweet, and acidic tang. Miles ghosted his hand along the small of her back as he guided her up the stairs to the second floor. The whole second floor was a series of interconnected rooms with tables – and  _Chinese_  servers. Rachel knew they were Chinese, even if their features weren't as pronounced as in the propaganda posters.

Rachel was seriously wondering what she had gotten herself into. Miles pulled out her chair, and she reluctantly sat. People weren't blacklisted for eating at a Chinese restaurant, were they? Not that that it would make  _much_  of a difference to her, but she would lose the rent-controlled apartment.

Rachel firmly gripped the side of the table as she took deep breaths. Miles was chatting very cordially with the Chinese woman, and then turned to Rachel and asked, "Have you ever had Chinese food?"

Rachel shook her head, attempting to keep a calm demeanor while blathering in fear underneath. No one had to know. This could be their little secret.

"It's good. Do you prefer beef or chicken?" asked Miles.

"Beef," replied Rachel, focusing on the question and not why he was asking it.

"How spicy do you like your food?" Miles asked.

"Not very. I'm a pretty big wimp," Rachel replied.

"Do you mind if I ordered for us?" asked Miles.

Typically, it galled Rachel if a mark ordered for her, but in this case Rachel just shook her head. She had no clue what kind of food they had, and didn't want to accidentally order dog or intestine or baby.

Miles told the Chinese woman several things. The only words that made much sense to Rachel were steamed rolls, beef, light pepper, and extra peanuts.

Once the waitress left, Rachel leaned over to Miles and whispered, "Is it okay to be here?"

Miles nodded reassuringly and said, "Some of my coworkers' wives work here. As I mentioned, it's still sorta hush-hush, but they're working on getting business permits."

Rachel had to ask, "You work with…  _Chinese_ people?"

Miles tried to suppress a grin, but Rachel could see the glint in his eye, "Yes, I work with some defectors from Chengdu – in western China."

"Oh," was all Rachel could say. Miles wasn't as mild-mannered and innocuous as she had thought. Not if he thought working beside Chinese defectors was no big deal.

The waitress promptly returned with a teapot and two tiny mugs. She filled each mug and left the pot on a wicker-mat on the table. Rachel took a sip of the hot tea, mostly to have something to do, and was surprised at how mellow it was. The tea didn't have the bite of English tea, which she wasn't really a big fan of.

Shortly after the tea was served, the woman returned with some horn-shaped rolls. Rachel psyched herself up for eating this forbidden food, and took a bite. The rolls were oddly chewy with a savory filling that was pretty good. She tried not thinking about what the filling might contain.

Miles tried to keep the flow of conversation going, but Rachel was too intrigued by the illicit nature of the experience to really keep up her end. Drinking Chinese tea, eating Chinese food, being served by Chinese people, it was all so odd…

At some later point, the waitress returned with two conical bowls, four vaguely pencil sized sticks, and a small tray of condiments. Before Rachel could deduce what the sticks were for, the waitress returned with the main dish. The main dish, a steaming pile of small pieces of (hopefully) beef mixed with peanuts, some veggies, and peppercorns, smelled temptingly delicious and not too spicy. Rachel just couldn't take it any longer had just had to ask, "That  _is_  beef, right?"

Miles nodded and then indicated the small bowl of red oil, "That is chili oil, pretty spicy," and then the small bowl of clear oil, "That is sesame oil, it's not spicy. And those are extra peanuts to cut the heat even more."

As he was explaining the condiments, the waitress returned with a large covered silver pot. She removed the lid, releasing a huge cloud of steam, and filled the conical bowls with a paddleful of white, sticky rice.

As Rachel was watching the steam bellow off of the rice and meat, she heard Miles discreetly ask for a fork for his lady friend. The waitress returned with a fork, and Miles somehow used two sticks to transfer the meat-veggie mix from the main bowl to Rachel's conical bowl and then served himself.

"Try it, you'll like it," Miles said and waited, watching her.

Rachel took a tiny morsel of beef and tentatively tasted it. It was delicious. It was garlicky, citrusy, and spicy, but not too spicy, and there was an odd tingly feeling. The beef was very chewy, but very flavorful. Rachel took another forkful and sampled the mixture of beef and vegetables on rice.  _It was good._

Rachel enjoyed the unusual tastes and textures and watched Miles add some red chili oil to his bowl and deftly use the sticks to transfer food from his bowl to his mouth.  _It's like dinner_ _ **and**_ _a show,_  thought Rachel.

Just as the novelty had begun to fade a bit, Miles said, "Stop."

Rachel froze, fork mid-air, wondering if some sedition officers had just entered the room. It was just a date; she didn't  _know_  it was forbidden.

Miles nimbly plucked a red thing off of her fork and said, "Chili pepper, very spicy. Try to avoid the red things." He added with a wink, before popping the offending pepper into his mouth.

Glad that she wasn't about to be arrested for treason, Rachel took a few sips of tea to calm down, and proceeded with a bit more care.

Rachel allowed herself to eat to satiation, a rather rare feeling, even on dates, and rejoiced in the unique experience of eating Chinese food.

After Miles polished off the rest of the main dish, he asked, "Did you save any room for dessert?"

No, she hadn't, but she didn't want to miss out on an once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, and tentatively asked, "What do they have?"

Miles, seeming to understand her plight, said, "Just normal ice cream or fresh fruit."

"Oh," responded Rachel, "No, I'm pretty much full."

"So, play time?" Miles asked.

"Sounds good," said Rachel, even though she was 95% sure it was a rhetorical question.

Miles simply stood up from the table and said good-bye to the waitress.

Rachel said, "Thank you," to the waitress and felt a rush of adrenaline. She had just spoken to a  _Chinese_  person.

As they were leaving, Rachel asked softly, "What about the check?"

Miles replied equally as soft, "I'm a regular, so they're just putting it on my tab."

"Oh." Miles definitely wasn't as mild-mannered and innocuous as he seemed.


	6. The Man Trap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is for the LJ 60 prompts in 60 days: Tempt
> 
> Thank you to xyber116 for beta'ing this chapter.

As Miles and Rachel left the Chinese restaurant, Miles' hand caught Rachel's attention. It was just swinging beside him temptingly. Rachel timed the frequency of his swings and adroitly captured his hand in hers. Miles tensed for a second and then eased into the contact, a small grin of confidence blooming upon his face.

Miles continued his impromptu tour of campus, and Rachel decided that he just didn't like to talk while he drove. As they approached Greene Hall, there was a small irritated crowd out front. As they neared the crowd, Rachel could hear disgruntled murmurs about Chinese plots and food poisoning. They forged their way through the crowd to the ticket booth. There was a large hastily-written sign posted on the booth, which read: "Play Postponed Cast Ill."

Inside the booth stood a ticket agent who was unwearyingly explaining the situation to a young couple. Rachel heard him say that the cast had all gotten food poisoning from bad fish at a post-rehearsal dinner, and that the play was postponed a week. If the couple wanted to get new tickets, he could do that; otherwise he could refund them their ticket price.

Miles turned to Rachel, clearly having heard the explanation, "What do you think?"

Rachel really did want to see this play, which turned out to be a less-political  _Peer Gynt_. Rachel said diffidently, "I'd like to see it next week."

Miles nodded forcefully, and then said, "I'd bet that some people will cancel, so we could switch days if you'd like."

Rachel did a quick calculation, adding up the pros and cons for each day and settled for saying, "Thursday night or Saturday night would be best for me."

"Okay, let's try for Saturday," said Miles.

Rachel nodded supportively. The young couple ahead of them took quite a bit longer to decide their course of action, during which Rachel thought about possible back-up plans. She was more upset than she thought she'd be at not getting to see the play, but she quickly suppressed it while thinking of a new strategy.

Once the young couple received their new tickets, Miles calmly and confidently took care of the rescheduling, and once the new tickets were in hand, he asked, "Now what?"

Rachel simply shrugged, supposing that Miles had come up with a game plan too, and that he really just wanted permission to air it.

Rachel had supposed correctly. Miles said diffidently, "We could go back to my place…"

Rachel froze for a few seconds. That wasn't the direction she had thought this was going, and it was too early.

Miles saw her minute body-tension and hurriedly said, "For coffee or tea, not for umm, that…" He finished lamely.

Rachel's back-up plan had been to suggest the on-campus coffee shop, but it didn't stay open very late. Miles was an interesting mark, with good potential, and she knew how to handle herself if things got out of hand, so…

Rachel said, "Umm, okay, sure," while her body language and tone said "coffee is good, but 'coffee' is not in the cards tonight."

Miles stiffly led Rachel just off campus to a gentility run-down apartment complex. He apologized for the lack of an elevator as they walked up two flights of stairs to his apartment.

He paused at the door of his apartment and Rachel watched his face blanche. His Adam's apple bobbed and he ran his fingers through his neatly trimmed beard, "I just realized, I don't have any coffee left."

Rachel calmly said, "Tea is fine."

Miles mumbled, "I don't have tea either. I have beer though."

Rachel soothingly said, "Beer is good, and it's a bit late for caffeinated beverages anyway."

Miles brightened up a bit and then said, "Give me five minutes to neaten up the place, please."

Rachel nodded. It was nice to know he wasn't planning on a post-play booty-call.

Rachel heard the sound of closet doors opening, maybe a thud of shoes being tossed, and a clink of glass on glass. When he opened his door and gave her the all-clear signal, she peeked inside. She saw a fairly tidy studio with a kitchenette against the left wall, a wall of bookshelves against the far wall, an outside wall with windows on the right, and a closet and presumably a bathroom door in the near wall. In the center of the room was a slightly askew futon in the couch position, and desk/dining table. The desk/dining table was curiously bare. There were many circular stains on said table with the diameter roughly matching a beer bottle, and a couple of pens, but no papers or beer bottles or dirty dishes. Ah, that was because the dirty dishes were in the sink, and she had heard him clear away the beer bottles. She mused about why he put the papers away.

She walked in and smelled the faintly musty smell of bachelorhood – dirty clothes, now hidden, yesterday's congealed remains of milk-and-cereal, the bitter bite of stale beer – overlaying the uniquely comforting smell of ink and book-binding glue. As she was taking note of the studio apartment, she wandered to the bookshelves. One third had textbooky looking books, but the two-thirds closest to the windows mostly contained paperback novels. These she assumed would be safe to browse through. She spotted a few Stephen King books that she hadn't read, and some tempting Dan Brown books too. Later on in the relationship she'd ask to borrow them. It wasn't good to show your true passion for books so early on in the game. Many marks found it intimidating.

On the bookshelves were also some framed photos. There was one of a younger Miles with a red Dodge Challenger and another with a maybe eight-year-old Miles, a twelve-year-old blue-eyed, brown-haired boy, a colorless stick of a woman, and a robust ruddy man. Rachel turned her eyes from the clearly personal photo back to browsing Miles' library.

Rachel was about to pluck The Dead Zone from his shelf – she'd read it, but quite awhile ago, and it had been a library copy with a few mystery stains – when Miles silently appeared by her elbow, an open beer bottle in each hand. Rachel jumped back, startled; she wasn't easy to sneak up on. Her hand knocked over one of the picture frames. And it fell. And time both froze and sped up. And she couldn't reach it. And his hands were full. And the frame shattered on the floor, taking with it Rachel's chances at borrowing those tempting books.

The odd time dilation effect dissipated and Rachel found herself squatting on the ground in her little black dress picking up shards of glass, hoping she hadn't damaged the only photo Miles had of his brother.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry," she said, knowing full well how precious family mementos were. She picked up the back of the frame and released a huge bubble of tension. It was only the photo of Miles and the car, and besides the glass on the floor, it was fine. Rachel knew some men cared a lot about their cars, but certainly not as much as their dead brothers.

The release of tension also un-stoppered Rachel's ears, and she could hear Miles saying, "It's okay, really it's okay." At some point he had set down the beer bottles and fetched a trashcan.

Rachel tossed her handful of shards into said can, and carefully plucked more off of the floor. Her hands were pretty tough from the café, but still it wasn't a good idea to bleed on the second date.

"I'm sorry, I'm so…" Rachel discarded skittish and jumpy before quickly saying, "… clumsy."

"I'm sorry, I startled you," said Miles, and attempted to joke, "I didn't like that frame anyways. Too brassy." Miles belied this statement by tenderly placing the frame and photo back on the shelf.

Rachel and Miles made quick work picking up the glass shards, and Miles brought up a little hand-broom to do a final pass. As Rachel was standing up from her squat, she spotted a corner of sheet music sticking out from underneath the bookshelf. She yanked it out. It was Led Zeppelin's  _Heartbreaker_. Rachel smiled as she handed it to Miles.

"You play?" she asked.

Miles sheepishly admitted, "Yeah, guitar, but not very well." Rachel silently vowed to herself, that she'd get him to play some day.

Miles gave Rachel his hand, and pulled her up from her squat, giving her the perfect opportunity to realize once again how strong he was underneath that Oxford shirt.

Rachel saw the beer on the table and grabbed one, taking a swig. She hmmmed appreciatively. This wasn't cheap bitter water, but a nice hoppy IPA. Miles grabbed the other and gestured to the futon.

Rachel primly sat on the futon, and Miles asked about the Ibsen plays she'd seen. In his own domain, Miles seemed at ease and comfortable, which was pretty damn sexy.

Halfway through Rachel's second beer, she worked up the courage – or stupidity – to ask Miles, "That's a pretty sweet car," gesturing at the picture frame, "What happened to it?"

Miles picked at the label on his bottle – his fourth – and said, eyes not leaving the bottle, "I had to give her up."

Rachel, the beer having loosened her up, asked, "Why?"

Miles said, "Couldn't afford the automobile tax and my mom's chemo."

Rachel felt a wave of some unnamable emotion flood through her. It wasn't pity, it wasn't sympathy, it wasn't kinship. Rachel found herself propelled into Miles lap, kissing him soundly.

At first, Miles was surprised, but then he eased into the kiss, his lips softening against the demands of hers. He tangled his hands in her hair and used them to pull her close. His lips fought hers for dominance, and she conceded. She buried her hands into his surprisingly soft, floppy hair and parted her lips for his questing tongue. Their tongues tangled and Rachel felt the familiar, yet always slightly bizarre, feel of papillae touching papillae. He smelled faintly of Irish Spring and his mouth tasted like beer.

As they explored each other's mouths, Rachel moved her hands down to firmly grip the collar of Miles' shirt. She wanted to pop the buttons right off his shirt, and she could feel physical evidence that he would welcome it, separated by his slacks and the thin, bunched, fabric of her little black dress. But she resisted, for the better, limiting herself to the passionate kiss. Miles was the first one to back off, panting for oxygen. His lips were red and swollen from the kiss – and her lipstick – and she knew hers were as well.

Miles ran his hand through his hair and looked sheepish, "So, that was… So, umm… Do you wanna ride home?"

Rachel sat back, tugged at her dress, and suppressed a grin at Miles' protection of her "virtue." She supposed he was right; she should stop herself. Rachel slipped back into her "girl-next-door" cover. She awkwardly disentangled herself from Miles' lap, avoiding his prominent bulge.

She forced a pretty blush upon her face and said, "Umm, yes, I probably should go home. I have work tomorrow."


	7. Mudd's Women

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is for the LJ 60 prompts in 60 days: Dissemble
> 
> Thank you to xyber116 for beta'ing this chapter.

Grace shoved Rachel as she passed, her hands laden with cheeseburgers and milkshakes. "Stop daydreaming and tend to your tables," she hissed.

Rachel shook herself. She wasn't daydreaming, per se. She was thinking about Miles. About his warm, oddly-callused, nimble hands, and his brown, glistening eyes. Even after hours of pondering, she still wasn't sure what to make of him. The prickle of his beard. His enjoyment of Stephen King novels. His thoughtful choice in second date entertainment – even if it didn't work out.

Grace push Rachel upon her turn to the kitchen, "You've got hungry people out there."

Rachel shook herself again, and this time she was successful at dragging herself out of the kitchen and to her tables. Rachel took orders, filled drinks, delivered food, all with more than half of her brain pondering the puzzle that was Miles Matheson. By the end of her shift, she had only received about half of the tips she normally would have for a Friday lunch-rush – a typically good shift tip-wise. She really did need to get her head back into the game, or else she'd need to dip into her clothing-fund to pay her third of the rent this month.

She normally was quite good at focusing on the present. The past held no fond memories, and the future only the unknown. She personally blamed her distraction on her runaway hormones. Her Tuesday was out of town, so she was feeling a little deprived. That's why she'd been fantasizing about Miles' oddly-callused, nimble fingers tracing their way down her belly, curling themselves in her landing strip, and teasing her clit.

Rachel bit her lip, walking down the street a half-mile from the café and a half-mile from her apartment; it was not the best place for these thoughts. Once she got home, she would have to do a little something about her out-of-control hormones. For tomorrow was Saturday.

Rachel entered a more sketchy neighborhood and needed to focus on her surroundings. Eyes alert and forward she wound her way around broken bottles of cheap booze and discarded hamburger wrappers. She unlocked the door to her apartment building, shut the door and went up to her apartment.

Rachel unlocked that door, shut and locked it behind her, and went to her room to take care of her business. Grace was working until 6, Nora started work at 4 (an 'after-school' shift) but wasn't home now, and Mia got out of school at 3:30.

Rachel woke up from a catnap to the sound of the door slamming shut. Rachel pulled on her comfy jeans and walked out to the kitchen/dining room/living room/Grace's bedroom to see what had gotten Mia all worked up.

"What's up, chicken-butt?" asked Rachel.

Mia grumped and rolled her eyes at the familiar 'term of endearment.'

Rachel continued, "School?"

Mia nodded.

Rachel probed further, "Classmates?"

Mia shook her head.

"Teacher?"

Mia shook her head.

"Headmaster?"

Mia gave Rachel a quizzical look.

"Classwork?"

Mia sighed, "Math."

Rachel asked, "Can I help?"

Mia looked skeptical.

Rachel expanded, "Would it hurt to give it a try?" Rachel had always enjoyed the escape school had offered, even though she had never finished secondary school. Her marks and test scores dipped below the 90th percentile in her second year, and, at the time, she lacked the "skills" to persuade the headmaster to reconsider her dismissal.

Mia sighed and dragged her book bag over to the kitchen table. She shoved the glass of wilting sunflowers over and simply poured the contents of the pack over the table.

Mia pawed through the pile and pulled out a math quiz and her hideously expensive math workbook. Why the schools had moved away from reusable textbooks to expensive one-use-only workbooks was beyond Rachel.

Rachel took a look at the quiz marked "4/10" in cherry-red ink, and attempted to figure out Mia's problem.

When Grace came home several hours later, bearing café rejects and a few groceries, she found the pair huddled around the math workbook, Rachel animatedly explaining something about fractions.

"Dinner, anyone?" she asked, a hint of a smile in her voice.

Mia sprang from the table to dibs the best option – which today turned out to be an over-cooked hamburger with a bite cut off of it. Rachel opted for one of the burnt muffins, cut off the burnt bottom, and slathered it in peanut butter.

While Mia was chowing down on dinner, Grace turned to Rachel and said, "You all sorted now?"

Rachel nodded, her mouth gummy with peanut butter.

"Good." Grace replied, "I've never seen you so distracted by a guy before."

Rachel hurriedly swallowed her muffin-and-peanut-butter, taking a swig of water to clear the remaining gumminess, "I'm not distracted by Miles; I'm just distracted."

Grace gave her a half-grin and said, "Sure… You may be good at lying to your men, but I know the truth, I see the evidence. You actually like this guy."

Rachel shook her head, and said, "He's a good mark. That's it. I don't really like him. He's too…"

Rachel paused, meanwhile the corners of Grace's lips just quirked upwards; Rachel continued, "He's too diffident. Not sure of himself. I like guys who know what they want."

Grace gave her an amused look, "Hon, you're either lying to me, or to yourself. You like to have control over the situation. Usually you guide from behind, but I'm sure you're just fine with a diffident mark. Just tell me about him so I can figure out why you're so distracted."

Rachel sighed, took a bite of muffin to give herself a bit of time to think, and then responded, "He has an excellent library." Grace nodded, still probing. "He's thoughtful – he wanted to take me to a play, 'cause I said I wanted to be a playwright." Grace nodded. "And he's sorta mysterious. He works with some Chinese scientists, he regularly eats Chinese food, and he sold his beloved Dodge Challenger to pay for his mother's chemo treatments."

Grace nodded yet again, clearly still not having figured out why Rachel was supposedly entranced by Miles. But that was okay. She wasn't the one who was going screw him. Rachel finished her muffin and left the kitchen with a "Good luck, chicken-butt," for Mia.


	8. The Doomsday Machine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is for the LJ 60 prompts in 60 days: World's End
> 
> Thank you to xyber116 for beta'ing this chapter.

It was Tuesday a bit past 2, when Miles rushed into the café. He hadn't shown on Saturday, and Rachel had tried not to think about what that meant. He scanned the restaurant and Rachel gave him a little wave. He rushed right over to her, no pretext of normality, no nothing.

"Rachel, good. You weren't answering your phone," he breathlessly spat out.

"No, I'm working." Rachel tried very hard to keep her annoyance from seeping into her voice, but she was. What was going on? What was so damn important?

Miles looked around and noticed that he was causing a scene, and asked, "Can I talk to for a few minutes? Privately?"

Rachel gave Dan – the café owner and operator, who just happened to be in today – a glance that said: I'm sorry; I'll be right back.

Rachel led him to the back and the first words out of his mouth were, "Do you trust me?"

Rachel just shrugged, not knowing where he was going with this, or how to answer.

Miles face tightened a minuscule amount, "Of course not, you hardly know me, and this is crazy. But the world is going to end tonight, and I want you to come with me."

Rachel just blinked. Miles had gone crazy. There was no other logical explanation.

"I know you don't believe me, but give me a chance to explain myself, show you some proof – please?"

"Not now," Rachel said simply.

"When do you get off?" Miles asked, bouncing on the balls of his feet.

"Four."

"Okay," he paused, screwed up his face in intense concentration, "That will be okay. Can I meet you here or at your place then?"

"Sure, my place, 4:30." Rachel was sure he was nuts, but with Grace and Nora to back her up, she was pretty certain they could convince Miles that she wasn't going to "go with him" when the world ended.

"Do you have hiking boots or camping gear?" Miles asked.

"No," said Rachel confused. She wasn't going to go haring off with him to be raped and murdered in the woods.

"What shoe size do you wear? I'll pick you up some stuff too. Just in case you decide."

Rachel, confused, said, "Size eight."

Miles stormed out of there like a man on a mission, leaving a befuddled Rachel and a swarm of gossip behind him.

Grace – who hadn't yet left from her 2 o'clock shift – simply raised an inquiring eyebrow, to which Rachel replied, "Miles has gone bonkers; house meeting at 4:15."

Rachel was pondering why Miles would think that she'd fall for a "the world is ending" plot, an elaborate one at that if he was actually going to buy her some hiking boots. She had been planning on sleeping with him after their third date (actually seeing  _Peer Gynt!_ ) but this was pretty crazy, or  **really**  crazy.

* * *

Rachel rushed home after work, and the women talked about how best to dissuade Miles. Grace pulled out her two foot-long Bowie knifes, Rachel and Grace each strapped one down, and Nora pulled out her stolen set of throwing knives. Mia was instructed to watch from a second floor window, and call the police if things go too out of hand.

Rachel waited at the front of apartment building and the other women arrayed themselves in plain sight, but a bit away from Rachel.

Miles' dull Focus pulled up and parked in front of the fire hydrant. He was dressed in military surplus fatigues and hiking boots and had with him a sheaf of paper. He smiled bizarrely when he saw her Bowie knife.

"So you believe me?" He asked hopefully.

Rachel shook her head.

"Oh." Miles' face fell in an almost cartoony manner. He visibly got a hold of himself and handed Rachel the sheaf of paper. He said, "Please, just look at the top one before writing me off as a whack-job."

Rachel did. In extremely jargony speak – with some whole paragraphs redacted – the page outlined the planned test of a new weapon to debilitate the Chinese. A weapon that would stop all electronic items. The test was set for tonight at 9 PM CST. It was on official looking letterhead from the DOD. Rachel was at first puzzled, and then terrified. She looked up at Miles.

"The test won't be contained. It will spread over the whole world in a manner of minutes. I've tried to get them to stop, but I'm only a junior scientist, and they won't listen to me. The rest of the papers explain it more fully, but we only have 4 hours to get out of the city before everything, including my car, dies. Forever."

Rachel gulped and waved Grace and Nora over, "I think he's right, guys. I think the world might end tonight." She handed the top sheet over to Grace.

"Will you come with me, please? Your… friends can come too." Miles said.

"Roommates," corrected Grace.

"Friends," adjusted Nora.

"Family," asserted Rachel.

"Okay. Could you pack quickly – only sturdy clothes – please? I have some camping gear and food."

Nora and Grace ran upstairs, and Rachel stepped uncomfortably close to Miles, deciding it was time to end the 'girl next door' routine. "I hope you know, if this is an elaborate play to get into my pants, I was planning on sleeping with you on Saturday."

It was Miles' turn to gulp, a bulge appearing mysteriously in his pants. Rachel ran to pack a small bag, and saw Miles shake himself, and start to unpack the back seat of his car to make room for her family.

The time the four women returned to the car – still equipped with weapons, but carrying backpacks of clothes as well as weapons in Grace's pack, feminine products in Nora's, and a shit-ton of jewelry to trade in Rachel's. Miles had several piles; there was a pile of packs of bottled water and a guitar case, another of some tarps and other camping gear, and a third of size 7 and 8 hiking boots.

"Do you guys want to try those on? Your tennis shoes are okay for now, but you might want to break in some hiking boots later."

While Nora and Rachel tried on boots, Grace and Mia helped Miles try to fit the camping gear into the truck. Rachel caught a glimpse of the back. She could see a tent, sleeping bags, lots of backpacking food, a few books, a small backpack, seeds, and some other camping gear. Miles had clearly spent more than a thousand dollars. Maybe a thousand dollars on hiking boots alone.

By 5:15 Grace, Mia, and Nora had piled into the back, much of the second pile of gear tucked in around them. Rachel was in the front passenger seat with one of the 4 24-packs of water underneath her feet and her pack on her lap. Miles handed her an Illinois map, told her the goal was Sterling, a tiny town off of I-88, and shot her an unreadable look. Rachel wondered if he was still thinking about what she had said earlier. She knew she was glad she packed some condoms. Then again, if the world  **didn't**  end at 9 tonight, well, she wasn't responsible for the actions of the others.


	9. The City on the Edge of Forever

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is for the LJ 60 prompts in 60 days: Adrenaline.

While battling the rush-hour traffic out of Chicago, Miles glanced back to introduce himself to Nora and Mia, "Hi, I'm Miles. You guys wouldn't happen to have family near these parts? No. Okay. My plan was to get the hell out of dodge, and meet up with my coworkers in a tiny town two hours from any big city. Some of my coworkers are foreigners, including some Chinese, so if you have a problem with that speak up now, or forever hold your peace. Okay. Good. The town we picked has good farm country and a population of 15,000, small enough that they shouldn't starve over the winter, and big enough to farm the local area the old-fashioned way after." Spiel over, Miles turned his eyes back to the stop-and-go traffic.

Rachel had never seen Miles like this, all take-chargey and forceful. She wondered if this was the real him and he'd been acting for her, or if the adrenaline of knowing the world was going to end made him act this way.

Once they had safely made it to I-88 and passed the tollbooths, Rachel turned her attention to the sheaf of world-ending documents. She didn't understand much, but what she did understand – that the DOD had made bazillions of tiny self-replicating machines that could absorb all electricity – scared her shitless. Miles was focused on the road, and Nora and Mia had nodded off. Rachel handed the documents to Grace. She had finished secondary school, so maybe she'd understand them better.

Rachel wanted to ask Miles why he didn't show up at the café like normal on Saturday, but she realized he was probably working on this science stuff. And besides, she didn't want to appear too clingy. The world might be ending, but she still had her self-respect.

At 8:07 by Miles' car clock, they had pulled into the rendezvous location, a Super 8 just off of I-88, outside the town of Sterling. Miles sighed a breath of relief as he pointed out his coworkers' cars, "That's John's car, and that is Aaron's. The truck over there is Jane's and that minivan is Brad's. I don't see the Deng's van, but they had to load up everything they could from the restaurant, so they might be cutting it a bit close. I'll go get us some rooms."

Miles stepped out of the car, and Rachel joined him. He gave her a quick glance but voiced no protest. The décor of the lobby was run-down with a touch of shady, and the hotel manager gave them an odd look when Miles asked for three rooms in a row. Rachel sidled up to Miles, tucked herself under his arm, and gave the guy a saucy wink, confirming the guy's suspicion that they were going to have hot monkey sex. The manager gave them keycards for three rooms in the back corner of the hotel. She used her patented booty-shaking strut as they walked back to the car.

Miles gave her an inquiring eyebrow raise, and she said, "Hey, it got the results we wanted, and the rooms are close to the fire exit."

Miles shrugged and handed her the keycards. He said, "This one is for you and your friends, this'll be mine, and this will be for the Deng family if they get here before the test."

Rachel voiced no protest, but thought with a mental wink that four people in one room and one in another wasn't exactly fair.

The women started unloading the car as Miles went to go make contact with his coworkers. Mia stayed by the propped open rooms – just in case the test was early and fried the swipe-access points.

Just as Rachel and Grace were carrying up the last of the supplies, she saw a large white van pull into the parking lot. A Chinese man furtively stepped out of van and looked around.

Rachel girded her polite-face on, and walked over to him, "Mr. Deng? I'm Rachel, Miles Matheson's girlfriend. We got you and your family a room already."

The man nodded and smiled and introduced himself as Wei Deng, his wife Li-Li Deng – the woman Rachel had met at the restaurant – and their two-year-old son Jun Deng. After mother and child were settled in their room, Grace, Nora, Rachel, and Wei started unloading the van. The van was packed to the brim with 50lb bags of rice, 5-gallon jugs of oil, 20lb bags vegetables of various sorts, tea, salt, sugar, peppers and spices, and six live chickens – five hens and a rooster. After covering the chicken pen with a blanket, Wei tucked it into a hidden compartment in the floor between the two sets of wheels.

After the second load of vegetables, Miles came out leading a small swarm of people to help unload. There was Dr. Jaffe, whose wife and daughter were guarding their clot of rooms, Dr. Sanborn, Dr. Li and his wife Ming, Dr. Jane Warren, Dr. Zhang and his wife Jie, Dr. He, and Dr. Pittman and his wife Priscilla. Introductions were made all around as they swiftly emptied the van and then locked it to safeguard the chickens. The van was empty by 8:57. Several of the more cautious people returned to their rooms to ensure they'd be able to get into them, while the others waited out in the parking lot, the neon signs of the highway service strip and the town beyond lighting up the night sky.

Miles checked his watch, proclaiming, "9:03."

Tensions rose. "9:05."

The Chinese started chattering in Chinese.

"9:10."

Nothing was happening.

"Maybe we finally persuaded them to delay the test," said Dr. Warren with a heavy leavening of doubt in her voice.

"Maybe..." Dr. Zhang, or maybe it was Dr. Li, said.

Miles turned to Rachel and softly said, "I'm sorry I dragged you and your friends all the way out here for nothing."

Rachel shrugged, he certainly hadn't set up this elaborate hoax just to get into her pants, all of these other people totally thought it was going to happen too.

Suddenly, the signs began to flicker, and then went out completely, and the cars on the road rolled to a stop. It had happened. The world had ended. Rachel grabbed Miles hand, feeling irrationally grateful for his presence. He squeezed her hand back, and the group of about a dozen walked back into the hotel and to their rooms in stunned silence.

Rachel knocked on Miles' door, and Mia opened it. Mia joined Grace in waiting for Nora to open up their room. Rachel said good night and entered Miles' room. Miles made some feeble protest that Rachel squashed with a kiss.

"My world just ended. Yes, it was crappy, but it was mine, and I knew my place in it. I need some comfort right now, and if you aren't the one to provide it, then…" Rachel sat down on the edge of the bed, fighting off an unwelcome bout of tears.

Miles kneeled before her and gently brushed a teardrop away. Rachel more forcefully knuckled the rest of her tears away and looked at Miles, her eyes still a bit tear-blurred. His brown eyes overflowed with pure, undiluted adulation; Rachel's cervix spasmed. Part of her protested that it was far too early for such feelings – he must have completely unrealistic expectations of her, or have been without sex for far too long – another part of her felt loved, protected, and wanted him in her right now.

* * *


	10. Amok Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is for the LJ 60 prompts in 60 days: Protection.

"My world just ended. Yes, it was crappy, but it was mine, and I knew my place in it. I need some comfort right now, and if you aren't the one to provide it, then…" Rachel sat down on the edge of the bed, fighting off an unwelcome bout of tears.

Miles kneeled before her and gently brushed a teardrop away. Rachel more forcefully knuckled the rest of her tears away and looked at Miles, her eyes still a bit tear-blurred. His brown eyes overflowed with pure, undiluted adulation; Rachel's cervix spasmed. Part of her protested that it was far too early for such feelings – he must have completely unrealistic expectations of her, or have been without sex for far too long – another part of her felt loved, protected, and wanted him in her right now.

Rachel ducked her head down and stole a quick kiss, deftly avoiding leaving a nose-print on his glasses. Rachel ran her fingers through Miles' glossy brown hair and wondered if he'd still give her that wetness-inducing look if he knew all things she'd done, all the guys she'd fucked, the guys she'd killed.

Rachel began unbuttoning Miles' military surplus fatigues and ran her fingers along the smooth planes of his chest. He was neither ripped, nor flabby, neither too hairy, nor unusually bald. Miles closed his eyes and moaned softly under her questing fingers. Rachel shucked the yoke of his shirt over his firmly muscled shoulders and let it slide down to puddle behind him. Rachel's fingers explored his fine deltoids and trapezius muscles and then paused to unbutton her blouse.

Miles opened his eyes and looked up at her. His nimble fingers took over the task of unbuttoning, and she returned to mapping his exquisite shoulders. Once he unbuttoned her blouse, he gave the flat plane of her belly a kiss and stood up. They sat down on the bed and he kissed her lightly on the lips. Rachel deepened the kiss, tangling her hands in his hair, and he slipped her shirt off her shoulders. He broke off the kiss to give her an inquiring look. Rachel nodded encouragement, and Miles popped her bra snap. Miles slid the straps off her shoulders and then gazed at her bare torso. The gaze was just long enough to be appreciative, but not so long as to be creepy or objectifying. Miles cupped her breasts in his callused hands and teased the nipples with his thumbs.

Miles worked her nipples to high nubs and Rachel gasped. She caught a self-satisfied grin on Miles' face. Rachel leaned over and kissed that smug grin right off his face. Miles used the belt loops on her jeans to slide her over and lift her up into his lap. Rachel adjusted her position slightly, grinding against Miles' penis ever so subtly. Rachel's lips captured Miles' muffled groan.  _He was very responsive_ , she thought with a smirk.

Rachel's hands returned to Miles' shoulders and Miles hands caught in her hair. Rachel nibbled on Miles' lip and was graced by another soft moan. Miles' hand ran down her back, ghosting along her spine – one of her sweet spots – she arched her back with a whimper.

Miles hands cupped her butt-cheeks and lifted her up. Miles began to lick and lap at her already tender nipples, and Rachel relaxed into the dual sensations of suspension and Miles' tender ministrations.

One of Miles' teeth scraped along her nipple and she let out a soft howl, riding the crest of stimulation. Miles instantly lowered her down and released her, apologizing profusely. Rachel's consciousness percolated back into her cascading body and she laughingly kissed Miles' forehead.

"There's nothing to apologize for silly man; that was good." She added with a Cheshire grin, "Very good."

Miles looked very discomfited, and was likely overthinking things, so Rachel decided to move on from the appetizers to the main course. She stepped over Miles and walked over to her bag; she felt his eyes on her so she made sure to give him a show as she bent down and unzipped one of the front pockets. She pulled out a condom, and while she was down there, untied and removed her tennis shoes.

Rachel turned around, fixed Miles with a sultry look and stepped out of her pants. Rachel was glad she just happened to be wearing her sexy red lace panties the day the world ended. Miles certainly was eyeing them admiringly.

Miles' eyes ran up her body, leaving goosebumps in their wake. He locked his eyes on hers and said, voice gruff with emotion, "I want you to know; I didn't do  _that_  for  _this_."

"I know," Rachel said, and then she gave him a little glance, telling him he was far too dressed. Miles obeyed with astounding alacrity, untying his boots and kicking off his pants. His legs were as lean and firmly muscled as his shoulders and she ached to explore them – not today, now it was time to move onwards. Rachel eyed his bulged black boxer briefs. Not exactly what she was expecting. She wasn't sure if she thought he was a boxers guy or a briefs guy, but she certainly hadn't considered boxer briefs.

Rachel stood and admired his form briefly before giving him another eye command to continue undressing. This time Miles hesitated a moment before complying, and then released his straining penis to spring fully erect. It was large and blushed, but neither overwhelming nor unwieldy.

Rachel stepped in, and stroked the satiny soft skin. She ran her thumb along the glans and his penis jumped gratifyingly in her hand. Rachel ripped open the wrapper and adroitly unrolled the condom down Miles’ satiny shaft, stroking the rock-hard ridge on the underside with her thumb. Rachel fondled Miles’ balls and he grunted with pleasure.

Rachel stood up, and gazed into Miles’ glistening and worshipful eyes. She placed his hand on her hips, resting them on top of her red lace panties. Despite what Grace said last week, there was a limit to how far she’d guide a mark. If they were sexually incompatible, she wanted to find out early, not late. Miles stared into her eyes for an uncomfortably long time. She didn’t know if he was searching for consent or confidence, but she nodded solemnly at him. He tucked his thumbs under her waistband, and drew her panties down her thighs, releasing them to fall to her feet.

He cocked his head in the most adorable manner possible at her landing strip – or it would have been adorable had she not been riding a wave of half-met need. He looked up at her for approval once more, before tentatively stroking her clit with one finger, and diving into her sopping folds. She moaned appreciatively – and only slightly forcedly – at his attentions. The next time he looked up at her, she coyly glanced at the bed, and he took the signal as hoped. With a puckish grin, Miles picked her up bridal-carry style – his prodigious boner poking her in the ass – and carried her to the bed. Rachel fought down a hiccup-like giggle. 

Miles gently placed her on the hotel bedspread, and she looked up at him. He was gazing down at her serenely.

“Now?” she exclaimed.

Miles released one throaty chuckle before kneeling on the bed. The old mattress dimpled beneath his weight, and he shifted, kneeing her legs apart. Then he paused, the damnable tease he was, and she released an impatient groan. He recommenced, slowly lowering himself down, his jutting penis sliding into her vagina, filling it – filling her – with its not inconsiderable girth.

Rachel paused, breath baited for a brief moment, taking in the sensation, before wrapping her legs around Miles, subtly altering his angle of attack. Miles began thrusting into her, pounding upon her cervix, grinding against her clitoris, driving her higher and higher. Higher and higher, until he drove her over her cliff, and she plummeted, taking him with her. 

* * *

Rachel awoke with one of Miles' arms draped protectively over her, his morning wood wedged against her hip. It actually wasn't too bad. She had had some pretty bad morning-afters in her time and many indifferent ones too. That's why, for the most part, she didn't sleep over, using an opening shift at the café as an excuse. But that wasn't really an option anymore, now was it?

Rachel wondered if what she told Dr. Deng last night was the truth. Was she Miles'  _girlfriend_? How did this all work post-apocalypse? Would she trade sex for the security of Miles' little science-clan? If the sex was as good as it was last night – he was far from tentative once he got going – she saw no issues with that trade in the near future, but what about when things got monotonous? What about when they ran out of condoms? Well as someone famous once said, it's no use borrowing trouble from the future; she had enough trouble in the here-and-now to deal with.

Speaking of… Rachel rolled over to her side and kissed Miles' shoulder. No reaction. She tried a kiss on the neck. No reaction. A kiss on the earlobe? Big reaction. Miles flailed about, his eyes blinking rapidly. Rachel fixed an innocently amused look on her face and waited for Miles' brain to wake up too. Miles' eyes focused on her, and a small grin blossomed on his face – presumably when he realized he had been woken up by a kiss from a beautiful woman naked in his bed.

"Good morning," he said and rolled over to his back.

"Good morning," she replied, and then continued, "What's the plan Stan? What do we do, now that the world has ended?"

Miles sat up and scooted back towards the headboard, "Well, the first thing we need to do is find a base of operations – a public building more than likely – with enough room for all of us and defensible too. People will start realizing that the shit has hit the fan in a big way soon enough, and social mores will go out the window. I was thinking John and I could go scouting and you guys can try to figure out how best to get the supplies we need to our base with as few trips as possible. This is tiny-town USA, and they'll probably start blaming the Chinese pretty soon, so we have to get them to the safe house quickly and quietly. I guess you and Dr. Warren could try to see if you can barter for some medical supplies, or really important non-essentials like toilet paper."

Rachel lay back and admired take-charge Miles. A Miles she'd never seen at the café, but one she was enjoying getting to know.

"What?" he asked, inquiring about the silly grin she felt upon her face. Rachel wondered about telling him the truth, but opted for saying, "I know a way we could get a bunch of TP, but you aren't going to like it…"


	11. Shore Leave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: This is for the LJ 60 prompts in 60 days: Content.
> 
> Thank you to xyber116 for beta'ing this chapter.

_I could get used to this,_  Rachel thought, waking up warm and tucked into Miles. One of his arms was underneath her head, tangled in her hair, and the other gently, yet possessively, holding her breast. Her feet were curled up against his calves and toasty-warm despite the bitter November morning. Rachel knew she should get up and do one of the million-and-one things that needed to be done, but she just didn't want to.

They were lying on a mattress that Rachel had traded one of her gold necklaces for from the Super 8 hotel manager back in the early days. There was a half of bed frame made out of school desks in the corner, Miles hadn't gotten around to finishing it – there was so many more important things to do, and so little daylight in which to do them. The Deng's rooster crowed again, and Rachel sighed and gently disentangled Miles' hand from her hair.

"Mmmghn," grunted Miles as she skillfully avoided his questing hands. He stretched and knuckled the sleep out of his eyes. He said, attempting to be sultry, "We don't  _have_  to get up."

Rachel just laughed while pulling on her pants, "We already had some midnight delight, we keep this up, we'll use up every condom in the state before they expire."

"You say that like it's a bad thing…"

"Oh, Mr. Sexy Hands, don't you think three condoms a night is a _bit_  excessive?" Rachel said while buttoning her blouse.

"Nope."

"You are incorrigible! Come on, you're burning daylight," she tossed back as she left the former fourth grade classroom. Rachel went down the hall and then down the staircase, her nose leading her to the kitchen. Rachel served herself some rice porridge – a breakfast that took some getting used to – and told Ming and Li-Li that the soup they were making for lunch smelled delicious. They dismissed her complement with habitual ease. At first this habit had annoyed her, but Miles explained that they weren't dismissing her, but warding off the bad luck associated with complements.

Rachel took her bowl into the cafeteria and sat down with Evelyn and Eve. They smiled at her, even though Evelyn was pretty conservative and disapproved of pre-marital sex. Rachel scarfed down the porridge and accosted Dr. Warren the moment she came through the door. As Jane had been Lab Manager and hyper-organized, she was in charge of internal affairs. Miles was in charge of external security, and Rachel's skills at reading people and figuring out what they wanted put her in charge of trade.

"How is our water level? Or should I just work on the playground?" she asked.

Jane grunted – she wasn't a morning person – and then said, "Water; we need more water."

Rachel licked her bowl clean, washed it, and then went over to the weapons cabinet to strap on a Bowie knife. Grace's skill with true street fighting had come in handy already, and she was teaching everyone what she knew about dirty fighting. Dr. Jaffe and Dr. Sanborn had military experience, but not Grace's no-holds-bared experience. And they didn't have her patience with beginners.

Rachel collected the water barrel – a 55-gallon drum strapped to a dolly – and rolled out of Franklin Elementary School. She shanghaied Dr. Sanborn on his way to breakfast to lock the gate behind her.  _The gate that Miles had forged out of straightened desk legs_ , she thought with a touch of pride.

Rachel was one of the few people who felt comfortable outside on her own, it helped that the townsfolk thought she was a victim of her circumstances – trapped in some sort of sexual bondage harem with Miles. She probably shouldn't have played with the Super 8 manager quite so much, but it had been so much fun leading him down a mental path to trying to figure out why she wanted  _lots_  of condoms, water-based lube, an ace bandage, tampons, and a box of toilet paper.

The harem bit arose because Dr. Warren, Grace, Miles, and herself were the four most commonly seen people. Whenever people came "calling," Dr. Jaffe and Dr. Sanborn would go to the second floor and man the water cannons. One actually contained water for a warning attack, and the other contained homemade napalm – Dr. Sanborn was  **not**  a man you wanted to mess with. Dr. Pittman was pretty lily-livered too, hiding with the Chinese and the children, and oh how Nora  _hated_  being classified as a child again. The Chinese tried to stay out of sight as much as possible – staying in the kitchen or the front office-turned-workroom all day. The townsfolk, and likely the whole nation, blamed the Chinese for The Blackout, and even Priscilla – a Filipino, and thus a stanch US ally – had been harassed and threatened when people saw her working in the playground, attempting to turn it into a garden by spring. Luckily, the playground had an eight-foot high chain-link fence around it, so Priscilla was able to flee her harassers easily.

After The Blackout – that's what people were calling it these days – the townsfolk went through a period of confusion, waiting for help. Then they panicked, frantically trying to help the farmers harvest as much of their crop – mostly corn and soybeans – and they were currently in a xenophobic and strongly distrustful period. Only Miles' group's strong foresight, plan execution, and skill-set produced a détente of sorts between the townsfolk and the group

Rachel sighed and turned her mind to the task at hand, rolling the water barrel through the car-littered boulevard to the Elkhorn Creek. The Rock River was closer, but more polluted and faster moving.

Rachel was able to fill the barrel and return to basecamp with minimal interactions with outsiders. Some housewives stared, and one man ogled, but there were no wolf-whistles or obscene comments. Rachel called out, and Nora let her in. Together they poured the water into the 55-gallon drum-turned-water-filter, and watched it percolate out the bottom into their 500-gallon water storage tank. Rachel emptied her barrel filling up the filter a second time, and left to get another load.

Three loads later, the sun had reached its zenith, and Rachel had had only one incident. One blond, wiry man had come up to her and said, "Hey baby, what you doin' haulin' water? Aren't you supposed to be making your way on your back? I'll…"

Rachel pulled out her Bowie knife and performed a tactically useless – and dangerous – yet flashy, baton-twirling maneuver and said, "You were saying?"

The man with icy blue eyes backed off, his eyes following her down the road. Right after The Blackout, she had had the town's gossips split as to who wore the metaphorical handcuffs, but when she started sporting a florid black eye in mid-October, opinions switched dramatically. She had tried telling a few people – including the town's very persistent social worker – that she had gotten it from Grace during a training exercise, but they didn't believe her. Maybe this incident would provide evidence and start shifting public opinion again.

Anyways, after starting the fourth load filtering, Rachel joined the clan at lunch. It was kind of sad how segregated they still were. The Chinese mostly ate with the Chinese, the scientists ate with the scientists, and the women who belonged to neither of those two clades ate together. Evelyn had tried to keep herself aloof from 'the rabble,' but Eve's friendship-of-convenience with Mia drew her in. Priscilla actually got along pretty well with Grace – they had the same dry sense of humor.

Rachel had tried in vain to bring the groups together, but this was before she learned complements discomfited Chinese people, and the scientists couldn't go ten minutes without talking shop – she enjoyed overhearing their plans to dig a well, set landmines, or improve their shower facility – what she couldn't stand was their continual need to postulate on if their coworkers could deprogram the nanites and turn the power back on. That sort of dwelling on the past did no one any good. Theirs was a brave new world, and if they turned their big squishy brains to the here-and-now they could make a pretty good life for themselves. They just needed to learn to be content.

After lunch, Rachel joined Grace's intermediate-level class on self-defense and then worked in the playground hauling away blacktop as Miles ripped it out. For dinner was another fiber-rich, calorie-poor meal of veggies on rice with a hint of fried egg, and Rachel found herself longing for simple peanut butter.

After dinner there was a small debate over whether Miles should play guitar or if Priscilla should continue reading  _Tom Riddle and the Chamber of Secrets_  – from the school's library – aloud. Tom Riddle won as most of the scientists abstained. The clan didn't have enough candles for after-dark work, but apparently sanding windmill blades didn't require light nor did grinding packing peanuts for napalm.

Rachel always voted for Miles' guitar – it was damn sexy – especially knowing he could get her off with just a few strokes of that exquisitely callused and nimble left index finger. But they were in a good spot in  _The Chamber of Secrets;_ Professor Dumbledore was just beginning to suspect something was up. Rachel settled into the cradle of Miles' arms, enjoying the comfort she found there. She luxuriated in the smell of Miles – 50% the oniony smell of sweat, 33% the stink of tar from the playground, and 17% the lemony fresh smell of the Dawn dish detergent they had found in the school's kitchen – and the feel of his heart racing behind her. It was gratifying to know that her mere presence was still enough to get his heart racing. Miles began stroking her hair – not as downy-soft or un-greasy as it had been – and she had to firm up her abs to resist melting into a puddle of utter serenity. Sometimes – and she never said this out loud – she was glad the Blackout had happened, and frequently – she  _had_  said this aloud – she was glad Miles came and got her.


	12. Epilogue

**Several Years Later**

As Rachel looked out her bedroom window at the bright green seedlings of the kitchen garden, the freshly plowed furrows of the fields beyond, and the intermingled swarm of children from both Clan and Town, she was glad the Blackout happened. The Chinese and the US were no longer at war, killing each other en masse, and she had finally found The One. Sure he was laconic and sometimes more mysterious to her than he'd been those few months at the café, but he had a good heart, strong arms, and magic hands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Author's Note: I know some of you might be wondering what happened to Chapters 12 and 13 (or not since it's been so long since I updated), but after re-reading this I realized that I already told my (Rachel and Miles') story, and adding in Maggie was just the beginning of another tale that I don't have the time, energy, or inspiration to complete. Sorry.


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